


To Touch A Torn Heart

by FanficCornerWriter19



Series: His Reason For Pride [4]
Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort & Consolation, F/M, Hurt Percy, darcy is a good friend, emotionally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficCornerWriter19/pseuds/FanficCornerWriter19
Summary: The mission is over, and Percy and Fitz are safely aboard the Day Dream along with the refugee d'Arcys. But Fitz hasn't forgotten what he meant to ask Percy when he saw his leader nibbling on his quizzing-glass earlier...And Percy reveals more than Darcy has surmised.Or: How the Scarlet Pimpernel and his subordinate cross a line and don't care.





	To Touch A Torn Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi - so due to a comment I removed all my previous warnings - it IS a bit weird. Anyway, hope you enjoy this kind of angsty fluff... that's contradictory but I'm rambling. 
> 
> Picks up right after 'Darcy's Debut Mission'.

I look at Percy, and as he lifts his quizzing-glass back to his lips and bites down on it I remember what I have to ask him. “Percy, you can stop avoiding me now,” I say firmly, getting up from my position. “Tell me what’s wrong; because something clearly is and I want to know.”

He sighs; a gusty, throbbing sigh that speaks of great emotional turmoil. I look at his eyes and I am shocked to see rain threatening to spill from the lightning blue.

“Demmed betrayal is what happened, Darcy,” he tells me softly, his voice broken. My heart throbs with sympathy for him – I have never seen noble Sir Percy Blakeney so… vulnerable. “Betrayal I could never have imagined of Margot.”

“Betrayal…” I trail off, unsure of whether or not to press further. This is a very fine line I tread, and if I overstep it I risk his snapping at me like the alpha wolf he is in this League.

“The Marquis de St. Cyr and his entire family – wife, children and all – were sent to the guillotine on the very morn of our wedding day,” he murmured. “And I know with damned absolute certainty that Marguerite is the one who sent them there.”

I take in a breath. I understand why he feels so betrayed. For his wife – the woman he loves – to contradict the very principle he risks his life for would cut him to the quick. I know that. He trusted her, and she took that trust and flung it out the window so carelessly he feels he cannot do it again.

“My God,” I stammer. I am still so unsure of how to react to this. He bites down on the golden rim so hard I fear he will break it, and a single tear traces his cheek, gleaming silver in the moonlight.

“Percy…” His white-blond locks are pulled back from his face, but they hide it nonetheless as he turns away from me. Shaking, timid, and afraid I shall break his trust like Lady Blakeney has done, I reach out, my hand trembling… and I lay it on his shoulder.

His reaction is so fast I hardly have time to register that he is not there anymore before he is weeping into my shoulder, his misery streaking my coat with water that might as well be blood. He is so hot I wonder if he is feverish, as his arms rivet him to me in perhaps the only emotional outburst I will ever witness from Percy.

I stand there, stunned into complete silence. What do I do? I decide to put my arms around his shoulders, giving him back the warmth he is spreading to me.

Human contact is so very rare in this world of ours, where a touch can mean a world of things and sometime be mistaken for something else. Our English world is cold and untouchable, our fingers, even if they link, covered in gloves. It is very rare to touch another person skin to skin. The last time I did so was to comfort my sister months ago. I have since learned to treasure human contact, the contact that tethers us to the ghosts that we can never truly know.

Percy has taught me better than ever that we only see of each person what they want us to see. They are to us who they want to be to us, and there is truly no moment when we do not touch illusion, when our bonds are not phantasmal.

I seldom touch anyone, for in our world it has too many implications to be safe. But here, far from prying eyes whose minds make assumptions, it is Percy – Percy the aloof, Percy the untouchable, and Percy the phantom – who is touching me, his hands clutching at my coat like a child who does not want to let go, his cheek pressed against my neck in a strange reversal of roles.

And it is I, Darcy – Darcy the stern, Darcy the proud, and Darcy the statue – who is touching him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, gloveless hands cool against his burning neck. It is I who stays silent with unspoken empathy as I let my barriers drop and let his emotions in. It is I, Darcy, who lets his heartbreak flow through me to store it in my own heart. 

His weeping takes an eternity and a blink of an eye before he is again retreating onto the rail with his quizzing-glass in his mouth, biting it the way a child would hold his toy for comfort. His face is streaked but he acts composed.

From the terrible experience of Ramsgate I know this is a bad thing.

“Percy,” I say softly. “There is no shame in crying when you hurt.”

“I must never tell her the secret, Darcy.” His voice is trembling, but he keeps it to a low whisper. “She can never know. I hate that I can love her so completely even while I know I must make her detest me for a fool.”

I heave a sigh that leaves a cloud of mist in the chilly air. “I cannot pretend to know how you feel, but… Percy… when it gets to be too much, talk to one of us. We are nineteen willing to lay down our lives for you, and we shall keep your secret to the death.” He looks away from me, trying to hide that which he knows I can see.

“Sink me, Darcy,” he murmurs, a feeble attempt at cheer. “But you are the only one I can tell.” He turns to me, raising his lightning eyes to mine, and he says a phrase all too absent from our cold English world: “Thank you, Darcy.”

I grin at him, happy that he trusts me enough to say it. “Always, Percy.”


End file.
